


All The Mess That We Made

by MikaHaeli8



Series: Direct Me To The Sun [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Hidden Past Life, Language, M/M, Mpreg, Yusuf exists too!, mentions of past character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikaHaeli8/pseuds/MikaHaeli8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wouldn’t let himself dwell in that again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Mess That We Made

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 10! Into the double figures now. Uploading this for peace of mind on your part, more than anything. See? Not so evil >: D Enjoy anyway! ~Mika

“Arthur.”

The point man wasn’t listening, shoving clothes without care and thought into his bag.

“ _Arthur!_ ”

“ _What?_ ” he almost yelled in frustration, wheeling around and ready to attack, only to see Ariadne behind him.

“I know you want to go home, but – ”

“But?” Arthur repeated, the frustration making his extremities curl and clench to the point of pain. “But what? The job’s done, my head is fine, no concussion, no danger for me,”

“No danger for you?” Ariadne repeated, picking up on the addition. “What’s that meant to mean?”

Arthur clenched his fingers, squeezing his bag, voice dropping and level even as his body hummed with tension. “Remember when I ran out a couple months ago?”

The architect nodded. “You made a phone call to Eames, right?”

Arthur didn’t reply any further, merely nodded, not ready to divulge the details of the phone call, of the instincts that had surfaced that day and hadn’t left since. The nightmares had also resurfaced for the first time in over a decade; nightmares of blood-matted hair, of silence save for the sounds coming from him, of the stench of death –

_No._

He wouldn’t let himself dwell in that again.

“Ari, just trust me on this,” he said softly, pre-empting any probing on her part. He knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t. She was good like that. “I need to go home.”

~x~

Moving was more difficult than ever today, and to make things worse, there was a heatwave which according to the weather reports, was due to last all week. Eames, now twenty-three weeks gone and, as advised, preoccupied himself mostly with crafting, walking Nelly when he had the energy and keeping timing of the kicks of each twin. They were getting more and more regular as the days ticked by. It was good; at least _something_ was going right.

Despite the pervasive threat to himself and his family, he’d also had company round more than a few times – mainly Yusuf, who had initially brought whiskey with him and upon realising that Eames was pregnant, proceeded to drink the whole bottle himself. He’d left the next morning with a thumping head, slightly hunched over from the hangover.

In between the appearances of welcome faces, Eames caved in to his inevitable nesting instinct and cleaned the house from top to bottom. Not only that, he’d gone through drawers, sorting and compartmentalising papers, going with his gut in deciding what was and wasn’t important (and he and Arthur had accumulated quite a lot of paper in the five years since Allie was born and they had decided to settle here, just outside London, to raise their daughter; to raise a family). He’d even found the paperwork from selling their other properties in France, Morocco (for the winter), Japan, Oslo and Los Angeles, of which half of the profit had been put into a savings account for Allie when she came of age.

He was cleaning the study when he found the photos.

Knee-deep in more paperwork ( _seriously, how much paperwork can one accumulate in half a decade?_ ), he had cleared the shredder and was about to slide another piece of paper in there when a photo, yellowed with age, slipped out and landed softly on the small, carpeted space in front of Eames. The heavily pregnant man froze, staring at it for a long time, as if afraid it would attack. Frowning, he peered closer at it before his eyes widened and picked it up gently between his finger and thumb.

Arthur was one of the figures in the photo.

It wasn’t Arthur from the present, luckily for Eames’ sanity. This Arthur looked much younger and happier, his dimples on full display and one arm wrapped around the waist of a pretty brunette. The other hand was on her stomach, which looked to be four or five months pregnant.

Eames’ breath hitched in his throat as he did some quick calculations, realising that this photo had been taken a good half-decade before he’d met Arthur. When they weren’t working together, the men were more open with each other than they were with anyone else. They both knew that. It was the sole certainty in a shared life of uncertainties.

But Arthur had never mentioned another family before.

Just then, the phone rang. It took a while for Eames to get up, but get up he did, taking long strides to answer the phone.

~x~

Arthur caught the first flight to London just in time, jolting awake as it landed. Despite his worry, his heart lifted in his chest. He was going home; he was seeing his family after almost four months.

In the taxi, he fumbled for his phone, speed-dialling a number so frequently called he was surprised the button itself hadn’t worn out. His outward calm and control – something he wore like a second skin – gave away nothing of the fact that his heart was beating furiously inside his chest, a _déjà vu_ he hoped was wrong settling over him like a cape.

“‘Lo?” a Cockney-accented voice answered.

Arthur exhaled in relief. “Hey. It’s me,”

“ _Arthur?_ ” Instantly, Eames’ accent returned to its usual Received Pronunciation. “What are you…Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Arthur replied soothingly, resisting the urge to add a term of endearment to the end. “I just called to say I’m coming home,”

“Shit,” the forger exhaled, voice unmistakeably full of relief. In the background, Nelly barked, presumably at a passer-by. “Fuck. I thought – I worried – Why didn’t you phone _before_ you left? I could have met you at the airport,”

“You couldn’t, and we both know why,” the point man said. “Wait a minute. You’re swearing. Our baby mouse – ”

“ – is with her godfather,” the Brit instantly replied.

Arthur sat up straight, body steel-hard with fury, caution forgot. “ _Cobb?_ She’s with Cobb?”

“Look, I know you don’t trust him. I know things haven’t been great personally between you since Fischer. But he’s her godfather, for fuck’s sake. She’s not safe here, and I’d rather see her with a stronger barrier around her than dead in my arms. Everyone else is too far away, or their lifestyles…” Arthur could practically hear Eames throw his hands up in despair.

Arthur knuckled his forehead, trying to calm the beginnings of a throbbing pain. “But she’s safe, right? And you’re okay.”

“Yes on both counts.” A pause. “I suppose I’ll see you in a bit,”

Arthur nodded, a small smile gracing his face. “I’ll see you soon,” he replied softly, hanging up before his mouth further betrayed his feelings. Slipping his phone back in his inner jacket pocket, he leaned back and sighed.

_I’m coming, love._


End file.
